


Simple Truths

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confusion, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes off on a case to Cardiff and John is looking forward to a quiet evening in. Alone - teamed up with a cuppa and a crime novel. But of course, it's not that simple and something happens that will eventually turn both their lives topsy-turvy.</p><p>Chapter 7: Conclusion </p><p>Now Complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Quiet Night In

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by the lovely TohruExcel (thank you so much!). I can't tell you what the prompt was because that would be giving too much away… Off with the first chapter. Enjoy reading!

John shifted the paper bag with the Chinese takeaway from one hand to the other and checked his watch - past nine already. He clicked his tongue and quickened his pace as his safe haven was just a few hundred yards away, promising peace and quiet. John smiled to himself when he realised how much he was looking forward to a quiet evening in and to having the entire flat to himself tonight. Strangely enough, it had a touch of a guilty pleasure, this feeling of contentment which was glowing warmly in his chest.

But what a prospect!

No nerve-wracking violin practice in the middle of the night, no madman storming into his room at half past two in the morning, recklessly interrupting precious deep sleep, demanding attention, however bleary-eyed and reluctantly given. No manoeuvering around sprawling limbs occupying the sofa or the chair or the floor, or wherever a whim had taken him. No moody silences interrupted by sudden outbursts of ill-tempered scornfulness. John had grown rather weary of all of those antics recently and if he was honest, a bit of peace and quiet was sorely needed and much wished for.

When Sherlock had announced this morning that they were being summoned to Cardiff on a case, and it had turned out that John could impossibly swap hours at the surgery where he was doing locum work on such short notice, he had set off alone and John had felt a sense of respite, relief even. True, Sherlock had, in an uncharacteristic show of affection, quirked his eyebrows in an apologetic manner when he had left, but the pull of an interesting case had been stronger than any regret or emotion or even sentiment he might have been harbouring for his flatmate. John had watched Sherlock go, bouncing joyfully down the stairs, and had resigned himself to accepting the fact that he would never be worth more attention or appreciation from Sherlock than, let's say, a mildly interesting Petri dish full of growing mould.

John huddled deeper into his winter jacket, bracing himself against the chilly wind of this December night. He didn't mind the cold as such, but the prospect of his tasty takeaway in front of a warm, cosy fire made him quicken his steps some more. Whistling a little cheerful melody under his breath he rounded the last corner to walk down the remaining few yards to 221B. Fumbling for the keys in his pocket he was rather preoccupied, forging out plans for the free night in his mind - maybe a long soak in the bath after his dinner or a crap telly marathon or...? – Thus deeply in thought he only saw the dark bundle next to the entrance to 221B when he almost tripped over it.

'Bloody _hell_ – what's that?' he cursed and took a step backwards. The bundle started to uncurl then and to his surprise slurred drunkenly, 'Dschoohn, there you are … I've been … waiiiting for … you.' John swallowed a curse and bit his lips, refusing to believe what he saw. He slowly leaned down, carefully exhaling, willing to control the anger he felt bubbling up inside him. 'For God's sakes, Harry!' he hissed. 'What the hell are you doing here? You're completely sloshed! - _Jesus_!'

'Am I? Hadn't noticed … but of course … you would! Soooo clever! Aren't you! Clever, clever, little DSCHOOOHNN!'

'All right, all right, sis.' John's eyes nervously darted around dark Baker Street. 'Keep your voice down. No need to let all the neighbours know you've been boozing again.'

'NOPE! Course not ... mustn't do that.' Harry enthusiastically nodded her assent. 'You are right … couuurse, you are!'

'Come on, Harry.' He bent down to help his sister up from the steps and slung his arm around her waist to steady her. 'Let's get you inside. Tell me what happened.'

 

oOo

 

John didn't get much out of Harry that night, wasn't very keen on doing so either. He resented her ruining his free evening much more than he would have thought possible, and so he was quite short with her when she whined about Clara and that she hadn't wanted to listen to her or to accept her apologies. And how she had then set out to forget her worries by drowning them in alcohol, her preferred remedy. As much as John loved his sister, he couldn't really cope with her alcohol excesses, of which she was _bloody well_ aware of.

'Why did you come here, Harry?' John asked when he tucked her into his bed. 'You wouldn't normally come. What happened?' He handed her a steaming mug of tea, his preferred formula to soothe all kinds of troubles, and looked down on her. John noticed that after Harry had taken a shower she seemed considerably less inebriated than before. Quickly he glanced aside, sadly enough she was used to heavy drinking.

'I had the urge to see you, John,' Harry answered and buried a tiny smile in the scalding tea. John squinted at her, he didn't know what to make of that answer and of that smile.

'What did Clara say when you came to see her?' John saw Harry almost imperceptibly flinch as if a distasteful memory had just surfaced. 'Oh, I'm sure she wasn't very welcoming. And I don't blame her, Harry. You really have to …'

'Yes! I know! I _have_ to! And I will … I definitely will, I promise. If I want Clara back, I definitely have to stop drinking, there's no way around it.'

John looked at her, took in her tired eyes and the worry lines around her mouth. He looked at a face that was quintessentially his own, or rather the softer, female version of it. He so much wanted to believe his sister, but he knew from past experience that Harry, confronted with what life chose to throw at her, was quick to break promises and resolutions.

'Well, better get some rest now, eh? We'll talk tomorrow.' He held out his hand to retrieve the mug and Harry willingly handed it back to him. Bending down he kissed her goodnight and went downstairs to find a bit of rest on the sofa. For a moment he played with the idea of sleeping in Sherlock's room as he wasn't there, but then he only shook his head and scoffed at the thought – _What the bloody hell am I thinking?_ \- He grabbed a woollen blanket and settled on the sofa, regretting a silent evening that had cruelly dissolved into thin air.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock opened the door to their flat with a flourish and immediately sensed that John had gone out already. Well, he would be, at half past ten in the morning, locum work usually started at eight and he still had a few days to go. When he stepped into their living room he hesitated for a split second as all evidence pointed to the fact that John must have slept on the sofa last night. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and scanned the room for more evidence – _A woollen blanket crumpled on the sofa, a clear imprint of John's head on the cushion_ – he squinted – _and a few light hairs to match. A mug of cold tea on the floor and a copy of one of those ridiculous crime stories John loved to devour next to it_ \- He saw the evidence, but he couldn't quite fit it around any scenario that might have played out in their flat yesterday evening.

Surely, if John was alone for once he would not sleep in the living room? He, who craved a bit of comfort more than any person Sherlock knew, would not have fallen asleep on the sofa. No, he always dragged his tired feet up the stairs to his own bed, insisting that he could only find proper rest there. A claim that Sherlock had disputed ever so often, but to no avail as John could be very stubborn indeed. Sherlock's lips curled into a tiny lopsided smile.

However, there was no time to dissect his flatmate's psyche and sleeping habits more than usual as he had a few urgent experiments connected to the case in Cardiff to conduct and he couldn't afford to lose any more time. He quickly shrugged out of his scarf and coat and got down to work.

 

oOo

 

'What – are – you?' Sherlock muttered under his breath, his eyes straining to make out the substance on the slides. He adjusted the ocular and peered down intently. 'What – are – you?' he repeated and it soon became a mantra, helping him concentrate. 'What – are …' A sudden noise made him start and sit up straight like a pointer dog sensing his prey. His hand hovered in mid-air and his piercing eyes fixed their intent stare on the door to the hallway where the noise had come from. _Not_ Mrs Hudson who was never anything but cheerful and admittedly rather noisy, _not_ John, certainly not John. Sherlock would recognize John's footsteps everywhere, had studied his gait, his walking pace, the pressure with which he set his rather small feet on different surfaces - everything was studied and filed away. No, not John – But - who then?

It was silent in the hallway now, and on a whim Sherlock decided to wait it out. Whoever it was would certainly have less patience than him. With a little smirk playing around his lips he focused on the slide again, unobtrusively keeping an eye on the door. The silence lasted a few seconds longer, quickly followed by the tell-tale noise of bare feet padding down the stairs from John's room. Sherlock's eyebrows rode up, almost touching the one bouncy errant curl that had fallen into his pale forehead.

_John's room? Who would have been in John's room?_

When he realised that in fact it could only be one of John's numerous girlfriends or dates or whatever you wanted to call them, he sighed theatrically. 'Boring,' he muttered and focused on the slide again, all excitement gone from the moment, only to be replaced by a certain brazen hollowness. A slight movement of his head was enough to chase that cold feeling away. Sherlock didn't even bother to look up when this person entered the kitchen, only hesitating for a tiny moment when she – _it must be a she, obviously_ – realised that she wasn't in fact alone. Far from being impressed by this unexpected turn of events, though, the person continued into the rather cluttered centre of their flat - _Sherlock and John's flat_ , that was, not John and _whoeverthisimpertinentpersonmaybe's_ flat – and positioned herself right next to Sherlock. Close, far too close for his liking. Reluctantly Sherlock risked a glance and saw one of John's pyjama bottoms and one of John's sleep shirts, the combat green ones, remains from his time as an army doctor. He frowned and used all his willpower to steer his gaze back to the microscope. 'What – are – you,' he muttered, clearly intent on shutting out the unwanted presence of John's love-interest from his world. 'What – are – you?'

'Well, it shouldn't be _what_ , but _who_ , although I'm sure a man of your intellect knows that!'

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed from the bottom of his heart. 'Ah - Harry. What, may I ask are you doing here? In John's room, in his pyjama bottoms and his t-shirt?'

It was Harry's turn to raise an astonished eyebrow. 'Know John's sleeping gear, do you?'

'Hardly a difficult deduction. After all we live together,' Sherlock's retort came quickly, a derisive undertone unmistakable. 'I can tell you exactly what sleeping gear, as you prefer to call it, John wears on Mondays, Tuesdays and so on. Your brother is very predictable in his habits and tastes.'

'Is he now?' Harry turned away from Sherlock, hiding a forced smile. Oh, he was so snarky, that one. But she would not let him rile her up this time.

'Why are you here, Harry? Judging from your tired eyes, the smell of alcohol and the matted hair, I'd say you went on a binge last night. But that can't be true, can it? John's been repeatedly assuring me you're not drinking anymore.'

Harry stopped in her tracks, hurt by Sherlock's words, but even more by his tone of voice. It was cold, it was condescending and it was hateful. She slowly turned around and leaned against the sink. Sherlock seemed to pay no heed to her. You could almost believe that he hadn't spoken at all, that she had imagined things. The way he was sitting there on the kitchen stool, bent over the ocular of his microscope, he looked so very innocent, so benign, peaceful even, what with the dark curls framing his pale and angular face. A mask of an angel covering a devil's face - That's what it was. How on earth could John put up with him? With him, who admittedly had never loved in his life and didn't even know what to do with human warmth and affection.

A shiver went down Harry's spine and she crossed her arms defiantly in front of her chest. It was definitely time to rattle that arrogant prick, time to put a chink into that icy armour - _Time to take some of your own medicine, dearie_. Harry tilted her head to the side and cleared her throat noisily, a habit that she and her brother John shared. 'How's life at the moment, Sherlock? Treating you kindly?'

Sherlock only scoffed in reply, clearly this was deemed an enquiry best to be ignored.

'How's living with my brother? Noticed any changes in him lately?'

'Can't say that I have,' Sherlock muttered, busying himself with smearing yet another substance onto yet another slide.

Interesting, Harry thought, at least John is worth an answer from that git. She decided to pursue that line of thought and on the spur of the moment she added, 'You know, Sherlock. John told me a lot about life at 221B. Told me a lot about you, actually.'

'Has he now? How utterly charming.'

'I was a bit of an agony aunt for him, really. Apparently John hasn't been very happy lately. You know - with his love life.'

'Oh?' Coming from any other, _normal_ , person this _Oh_ could have been taken as an incentive to plough on, but with Sherlock it only came out as a sign of utter disinterest and boredom. Harry considered herself lucky to have elicited a response at all, a response to an issue that so clearly was not Sherlock's expertise.

'Yeah, definitely. Very unhappy - There is someone he has fallen for – completely, utterly and deeply …' An exasperated sigh from Sherlock only served to spurn Harry on. 'He was saying - just the other day - how much it distracted and hurt him and that he didn't really know whether this was the right person …'

'You being England's leading expert on relationships were surely able to offer him advice.'

'I was.'

'Clearly.'

'I told him to be open and to talk to that person. Just spill the beans, you know.' '

Oh, I'm sure John will heed your invaluable advice, but I'm sorry to disappoint you and put an end to that inane conversation right now. What makes you think I was even remotely interested in what you call 'John's love life' in the first place? I really can't be expected to take account of his various girlfriends and dates …'

'He wasn't talking about any of his various girlfriends and dates, as you put it,' Harry gleefully interrupted him, ready to drop the bomb. 'He was talking about you.'


	2. Disarray

Sherlock's head shot up, his eyes flickering to the side. He carefully avoided meeting Harry's gaze, and quickly turned back to the microscope, bending down over the ocular once again. It was paramount not to react to her taunt, at least not verbally, but his razor sharp mind registered all the subsequent bodily responses to her revelation: How his breathing slowed down for a moment, before his heart resumed pounding at an almost impossible rate and how his stomach clenched as if something very hot had been poured into it. He sensed his palms go clammy and felt beads of sweat running down his spine, dampening his tight black shirt at the small of the back. Almost imperceptibly he shifted his legs on the stool.

Harry settled back against the sink and watched Sherlock with narrowed eyes, a smug look of a cheap triumph on her face. She fairly bathed in the fact that he looked utterly miserable and had gone pale beyond imagination. And even better, there was a definite strain around his mouth and lips. Satisfied she realised that he obviously used all his available willpower to control himself and that he wanted to appear unaffected at all costs. The smug smile on her face widened into a deep grin and content with her morning's work Harry pushed off the cold steel of the sink and made to leave the kitchen, fully intending to leave the stupid git alone with the havoc she had created. Passing Sherlock she couldn't hold back, though, and whispered, 'Oops! And I was certain you'd know!' before she sauntered out of the kitchen.

When she came back twenty minutes later, showered, relatively refreshed and ready to face the day, Sherlock hadn't moved and was still staring ahead, a pinched look to his mouth and a very absent expression in his eyes. Harry felt a miniscule sting of regret when she saw him like that, but then her thoughts flickered back to his words, hurled at her to hurt, and this was reminder enough to chase away any morsel of sympathy she might feel for him. She pushed past Sherlock and opened the fridge.

'Got anything for breakfast?' she demanded as if nothing had happened. 'Toast? Butter? Jam? Tea?'

'Help yourself.' Sherlock muttered eventually, 'I'm not your maid.'

' _Jesus_ – You are one hell of a host, aren't you?'

'You're quite right. I am not.'

'What?'

'Your host.' Sherlock felt the need to clear his throat, it felt constricted somehow, as if an invisible rope was slowly being tied around it and pulled tight. He tried to ignore this unpleasant sensation and focused on his slides again, blocking out Harry's annoying presence. Lifting a new slide from the table he noticed that his fingers were shaking and stifled a curse. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried again, and this time his hand appeared steady. At least steady enough to place the slide underneath the lens.

'What – are – you?' he resumed chanting his mantra, much to help him concentrate as to finally solve this riddle. He adjusted the lens, but images of John's smile flashed across his mind's eye, distracting him. Snippets of their last conversation surfaced from God knows where and the particular lemony scent that clung to the bathroom once John had taken his shower in the morning seemed to his fill his nostrils. 'What – are – you?' he repeated, a tad louder and rather desperate, and Harry stopped rooting through the fridge and turned around, incredulous that she heard an unexpected human tone colouring Sherlock's mutterings.

'Well, there's nothing in there. Nothing edible, that is …' Harry said, gesturing to the huge stainless steel fridge that adorned her brother and Sherlock's kitchen. 'I think I'll just nip down to the shops and get a few things.'

'Are you planning to move in?' Sherlock demanded, sounding very much his usual brusque self again and not taking his eyes off the slide. 'Just tell me, so that I make sure not to cross your path again.'

'What are you going to do if I say yes? Move out?'

'Obviously.'

'Don't bother, Sherlock. I'll be gone after breakfast.'

'Good.'

When Sherlock finally heard the main door click shut, all bravado, strength and scorn seemed to gush out of him and he fairly slumped down. He buried his head in his hands and then ruffled them through his hair, repeatedly and forcefully as if this physical pain would help him to wake up from what could only be a bad dream. A long drawn-out moan escaped his mouth and he covered his eyes with his long fingers. They were cool and the soft pressure of those slender digits against his eyelids helped him to calm down marginally. 'John,' he moaned. 'John, what have you done?'

His restless body urged him to get up and start pacing the length of the kitchen. But it was too narrow, encasing him, and so he expanded his stride into the living room, a staccato of steps, gathering speed with every new turn, developing into something frantic, but still insufficient to kill those ridiculous thoughts Harry had planted into his mind.

John loved him – loved – him – John.

How was he supposed to deal with that? How was he supposed to go on while being privy to that secret? How were they supposed to live on - here - together? It was out of the question that Sherlock could love him back - it was out of the question. And John had experienced love before, hadn't he? So he would want him to react somehow, to comment, to participate and to give? No ... but he couldn't, there was no way he could give John what he would surely be asking for. There was no common ground, no middle way to meet upon - No!

Sherlock came to a halt in front of the fireplace and looked up. He was expecting his usual composed face when he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and fairly recoiled when he saw a face contorted by emotion. It was terrifying enough to make him turn on his heels and run.

 

oOo

 

The surgery had been a madhouse all day, patients in and out his doctor's office without break. Mothers with crying infants, old dears with numerous ailments and one case of a broken arm, a toddler, fallen off a see-saw. John wiped his hands over his tired eyes and breathed a sigh of utter relief when the door finally closed behind his last patient. In fact it had been so very busy that there had been no chance to reply to Sherlock's numerous texts that had surely arrived over the day. He grabbed the phone from his desk and checked the messages. To his surprise there was only one, and it wasn't from Sherlock, but from Harry –

_Thank you, Johnny. I owe you – I went home after breakfast. I'll be in touch –_

Harry John frowned, no messages from Sherlock? Not even a short one demanding him to come home? That was a first - Ever since they had moved in together, Sherlock had used him, or his virtual self in the form of texts, as a sounding board, bouncing off ideas and thoughts and not always requiring input or feedback from John. No, sometimes he was quite content just to talk aloud without actually conversing. And whenever they had been apart John had always been able to rely upon being kept informed. So, this silence was rather odd and, strangely enough, slightly disturbing.

True, John had craved a respite from Sherlock's over-demanding and over-excited personality yesterday and had been more than cross with Harry for spoiling such a rare opportunity of laziness and peace - But now? - To begin with he was interested in the case and for another thing he had to admit that he grown used to Sherlock's presence, virtual or real. He and his annoying and somewhat fascinating antics were a part of his life, a large part of his life, if he was honest.

John got up, pocketed the phone, and got ready for his journey home. He had to do some shopping on his way back and Sherlock would certainly have returned from Cardiff by then. Obviously John would be needed to talk to after an exciting outing and he would be there to listen. He switched off the desk lamp and left.

 

oOo

 

No lights shone through the windows of their flat and John's heart skipped a beat when he realised that it meant that Sherlock had not come home yet. Still, he quickened his pace and hurried down the street towards 221B, the plastic bags containing the groceries banging uncomfortably against his legs.

Inside the flat it was cold and dark, and even switching on the lights didn't chase away that sense of abandonment that seemed to permeate the musty air. Only the remnants of a breakfast, Harry's John assumed, indicated that the flat had indeed been populated at one point today. So, it looked as if Sherlock had not returned from Cardiff yet – _Right – Okay, but why for God's sakes didn't he text?_ \- John let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, an indicator of his tension and, as he wanted to make himself believe, his tiredness.

He plonked the plastic bags onto the counter in the kitchen and turned back towards the hall to shrug out of his jacket. Reaching up to the coat rack something made him stop dead in his tracks, his arm hovering in mid-air. There it was, Sherlock's dark great coat and his blue woollen scarf hanging side by side on their usual hooks, their silent and inconspicuous presence mocking him when their owner was nowhere in sight.

'Sherlock?' John called out and turned around. 'Sherlock? Are you home?' John carefully hung up his black jacket next to Sherlock's coat, quickly passing his hand over the soft woollen fabric, and then walked the few steps to his flatmate's bedroom. He hesitated a second before he knocked on the closed door. 'Sherlock?' he asked again, tilting his head to the side, straining to make out any sound. But only a rather resonant silence and the pounding of his own heart floated back to him. For a moment John fought a vivid internal battle whether to open the door and have a look. But he knew how much he resented Sherlock's occasional or rather not so occasional violations of his privacy and refrained. He couldn't deny a feeling of unease creeping unbidden into his thoughts, though.

John slowly turned away from the door and went back into the kitchen. No use to brood about this situation when there was so much to do, really. The groceries needed to be ranged and he absolutely craved a cup of tea - and he needed to heat his dinner – ready-made lasagna being the choice of the day. First things first, though, and so John peeled the lid off the plastic container containing the lasagna and popped it into the microwave, luckily devoid of human eyes or fingers or any other of Sherlock's disgusting concoctions.

Waiting for his dinner to heat up, John leaned against the counter, pushing his hands deep into his trouser pockets. When he felt the cool metal of his silent phone a shiver went down his spine and he quickly retracted his hands to cross them defiantly over his chest. To take his mind off this unusual silence John let his eyes roam idly through the kitchen. They settled on the table, on the microscope to be precise. And they saw an experiment, a fresh, a new experiment that was laid out there, that was apparently in the process of being conducted – yes, without the shadow of a doubt.

John uncrossed his arms and pushed off the counter. He touched the gleaming light and the body of the microscope and it was warm, very warm in fact, so in use for quite some time. John straightened his back and called out, 'Sherlock?' Still no answer and so he went to knock on his bedroom door once again. He had to knock a second time before he finally took heart and gingerly opened the door. 'Sherl …' he said, hoping for a sarcastic retort or an angry tirade, but disappointment hit him square in the face when he realised that the bedroom was as cold and empty as the rest of the flat. Anxiety set in then and clamped a cold, merciless fist around his heart. John dipped his chin and frowned in response to this unconscious reaction. _He must have gone out again - keep calm – It's not as if he's around all the bloody time_ –

John wetted his lips and retreated to the kitchen, carefully closing the door behind him. On impulse he went out into the hallway again and slipped his hand into the pockets of Sherlock's coat. The fact that his fingers brushed over the sleek casing of Sherlock's mobile phone added to the nagging fear that began slowly seeping into his heart.

 

oOo

 

The combination of a tiring working day and the usual after-dinner drowsiness let John fall asleep in his favourite chair, today's paper scattered around him on the floor and a cup of tea which had long gone tepid and then cold next to him on the mantelpiece. His sleep was light and he dreamed that a cold hand reached out and touched him, dragging gentle, but ice cold fingers across his forehead, making him jump. 'Sherl …' he mumbled and his eyes flew open, scanning the dim room frantically. A shaky sigh escaped his mouth when he saw Sherlock standing in the door frame, clad only in his shirt and trousers. He looked utterly frozen and completely lost.

'Sherlock' John was on his feet and next to his mad flatmate in an instant. Icy coldness was coming off Sherlock in waves, cooling down the air around him, and he seemed frozen to the bone. 'Have you been outside in the cold all the time?' Sherlock nodded, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. John took in the thin black shirt and the dark suit trousers, 'You went out like that? Without your coat?' Another nod, and then he couldn't control the shivering anymore and trembled convulsively. John lifted his hand as if to touch him, but he lost heart and let his hand hover insecurely between them. He had to clear his throat to chase away the awkwardness. 'Why, Sherlock? Why on earth would you do that?'

'I had to think,' Sherlock pressed out between clenched teeth, avoiding eye-contact.

John tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, 'About what?'

'You.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for kudos and subscriptions ... And feedback would be very much appreciated as well! Thank you so much ;-D JJ


	3. Slow-down

'Me?' John knitted his brows, taken aback by this unexpected answer. 'Why would you have to think about me? Outside…' he gestured rather witlessly towards the general direction of the dark windows, 'In the cold?' Sherlock avoided his gaze, and fixed a point slightly to the left of John's head. He closed his eyes, trying to control the convulsive shivering that was shaking his body now, a desperate, but rather futile attempt to hide this damnable frailty. John narrowed his eyes and watched him closely. His routine as a doctor told him that he had to get him warm again soon before the undercooling of his body would become dangerous. Besides, it was pointless losing any more time as it was more than obvious that Sherlock would not tell him the reason for his strange behaviour any time soon.

'Come on, Sherlock. We need to get you warmed up. I'll run you a hot bath.' John lifted his hand to touch Sherlock, to gently push him towards the bathroom, but Sherlock swerved his hand and turned away from him towards the kitchen. He stooped over the table to check the slides he had left there this morning, the substances he had wanted to study long dried up and useless. He stifled a curse, a morning's work for nothing and the solution to the Cardiff case all but tangible. In fact, he hadn't thought about the double murder all day - No, not at all – Ever since Harry had … Ever since _then_ there had been nothing but _John, John, John_ coursing endlessly and relentlessly through his thoughts, filling every available space in his mind.

John watched him a second, elation that he had come home, seemingly unharmed and in one piece battling with the annoyance he felt in the face of Sherlock's carelessness and negligence of his body. Eventually he brushed past him and went into the bathroom. He turned on the heating and ran the hot water, making sure it was almost scolding hot, enough so to warm Sherlock up effectively. Watching the hot water spouting noisily out of the tap was strangely calming, the steam rising from the rapidly rising water filling the small bathroom with much needed warmth.

'Sherlock,' John called, 'I've run the bath for you.' He turned away from the tub to the cabinet to retrieve a fresh towel and when he turned back around Sherlock stood right in front of him. Very close. John was startled, he had neither heard the door clapping nor footsteps approaching. Sherlock had crept up on him, stealthily like a cat. Now he looked down on John and moved even closer, leaving him no choice but to take one step backwards if he didn't want to stand chest to chest with him. Moving backwards of course meant he was effectively trapped between Sherlock and the sink. John cleared his throat and looked up into Sherlock's face which was only inches away from his own. He knitted his brows, thus trying to convey his confusion as he could not trust his voice. All the while the hot water was streaming into the tub, threatening to spill over at any moment. Sherlock seemed to zoom in on him, focus on him with his piercing eyes, study him, read him. It was more than disconcerting and it was rude.

'Sherlock,' John managed to say. 'What are you doing?' Sherlock blinked as if John's words had woken him and abruptly turned away. He stared down into the gurgling water, but remained motionless, he neither closed the tap nor did he start to undress. John pushed past him and closed the tap for him. Insecurely his hand hovered over it for a moment before he straightened his back again. There was _something_ in the air, something hanging between them that he could neither grasp nor explain. Now was definitely _not_ the time to explore, though, now all that was left to do was getting Sherlock into that hot water.

'Sherlock, take off those clothes and get into the water. Quickly - We need to rise your body temperature. No use having you suffer from hypothermia, is there? Now, you'll get undressed and I'll turn on the heating in your bedroom. After the bath you need to get into bed with lots of blankets and a hot tea.' John was babbling and he knew it, and it did not help that Sherlock was not reacting to his words, but continued staring straight ahead, fixing his gaze on the tiled wall. Apart from the ripples of the convulsive shivering which danced over his body he was still not moving.

'Right – Okay. You get out of your clothes and I'll …' John pointed vaguely into the direction of Sherlock's bedroom and then left him to it, convinced that common sense would prevail and that he would eventually start undressing and get into the tub. In the meantime he made sure to get all the blankets he could find to provide Sherlock with a warm and comfy bed. He even fetched his own eiderdown duvet to put on top of the already ridiculous amount of blankets. His focus was never leaving the bath, though, lest he should miss out on the tell-tale noises of a person slipping into the water. When he hadn't heard anything for at least five minutes, he knocked on the bathroom door to check.

'Sherlock? Are you in the tub yet?' No answer. John dipped his chin and cursed under his breath – _Bloody hell_ \- He opened the door a crack to peer in and found Sherlock standing exactly like he had five minutes ago, still entirely dressed and still fixing the wall - _Right – Okay, I have to do it then_ \- John stepped into the bathroom and lightly touched Sherlock on the shoulder to make him turn around. Sherlock did not resist, but only fixed his gaze on him, surprise and confusion flickering over his features. Both emotions were soon gone and his face became entirely impassive again.

John lifted his hands to Sherlock's chest and started unbuttoning his shirt, one, then two, then three buttons. Sherlock followed the movement attentively with his eyes, but otherwise he let him get on with it. Once all the buttons were undone John slipped the black shirt over his bony shoulders and let it fall to the floor. John was careful not to gawp at the expanse of ivory skin mere inches away from his face and reverted to his doctor's persona, separating this naked torso from his friend and flatmate, categorizing it as just another patient, somebody in need of his professional help. He made to unbutton Sherlock's trousers and when his knuckles accidently brushed over Sherlock's abdomen, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

'Don't! - Don't touch me like that.' Sherlock took a step backwards, brusquely turning away, but with John effectively blocking his escape he couldn't just storm out of the bathroom. John's head shot up and he looked at his friend's face in puzzlement, 'What did you just say?'

'I said – _Don' – touch – me – like - that!_ Didn't you hear me?'

'I heard you perfectly well, but I cannot for the life of me understand what you're on about.'

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut. His eyes flickered nervously past John, he was biting his lips and studiously avoiding his gaze. _What the bloody hell?_ \- John closed his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, letting his hand fall to his sides, 'Get out of your trousers yourself then and into the water.' He was barely able to hide his irritation any longer, 'And do it _now_!'

He was astonished how quickly his elation of seeing Sherlock alive and in one piece had turned into something akin to red hot anger. Inwardly seething he turned away to offer Sherlock some privacy, but he wouldn't budge, wouldn't leave the bathroom which was growing very warm indeed now. John sensed beads of sweat running down his spine and twitched at this uncomfortable feeling. But taking off his woollen jumper was out of the question as Sherlock would certainly take it the wrong way in his state. He must be running a fever already, John was sure. Why on earth would he be behaving like that otherwise? Why? He behaved as if John was after his soul, or worse, after his body. He scoffed and slightly shook his head.

After a moment of silence he heard the tell-tale rustle of a pair of trousers sliding down skin behind him and the soft thud of them falling onto the floor, followed by the soft whooshing sound of briefs and a pair of socks being discarded before joining the rest of the clothes on the cold tiles. Seconds later he heard the sound of Sherlock lowering his body into the tub accompanied by a soft moan when the scalding water hit his skin. John risked a glanced over his shoulder and satisfied with what he was seeing, he said rather sternly, 'Right – you stay there for twenty minutes to warm up. I'll leave the bathroom door ajar and check on you from time to time. I don't want you to fall asleep and accidently drown in our own tub.'

This earned him no answer, no sarcastic retort, no snide remark, which was highly unusual indeed and it only added to John's confusion as to Sherlock's behaviour. A frown knitted his brows when he left the bathroom to calm down and to prepare some tea and hot soup for his frankly unhinged flatmate.

Sherlock could read the anger that was battling with confusion in the tension of John's strong back when he left the bathroom and finally left him to his own devices. Was it going to be like that from now on? Was this awkwardness and hidden anger going to taint every second that they would be spending together? _This won't do! No, this won't do at all!_ \- They had to get this out of the way. He had to tell him that he knew, he had to tell John that he knew he was in love with him.

Sherlock slipped deeper into the hot water, reluctantly enjoying the sensation of warmth slowly seeping back into his bones. This was an unusual situation indeed, the kerfuffle with John of course, but also the fact that he spent idle and wasted time in the tub, trying to warm up his useless body. He peered at his arms and legs, taking stock of something which was solely a means to an end for him, a shroud, needed for transport – not a shrine to be worshipped and never a source of pleasure, not for himself and most certainly not for anybody else. Physical pleasure, desire or sex simply did not occur in his life, it was not missed and it was neither desired nor was it ever exercised.

Of course he knew what everybody was talking about, of course he had experienced all that and of course he was not a virgin anymore. People tended to assume, and he couldn't be bothered to disabuse them of this notion, he just did not care. Suddenly a thought flashed across his mind - _Would John also assume…?_ \- No need to lie to him, was there? So if he should ever ask he would tell him that he had lost his virginity to a fellow student while at Cambridge, an occurrence he had deleted soon afterwards. He had not enjoyed this _activity_ and if anything could have been learned from that experience, then that sex made people unpredictable and pliable, it made them lose their common sense, their restraint, their intellect. No, sex had never been desirable for him. If he had needed to forget or to numb his senses in the past drugs had been his method of choice.

He glanced at his naked body again, gleaming palely in the water. He tentatively wiggled his long, slender fingers, rippling the surface of the water. Looking at his body in a scientific, detached way he could see that his long and lean arms and legs were well proportioned, he was athletic and he was fit. He had no idea if he was what normal people would call attractive or desirable. His first lover had told him so, but then he had wanted to sleep with him, therefore anything he had said was not to be trusted.

Sherlock lifted his right leg, letting his eyes roam from his toes to his hip when images of those long, pale legs wrapped around a muscular, tanned back, holding tight, moving rhythmically, pressing down, urging to go harder, deeper suddenly flashed in front of his mind's eye and made him involuntarily shake his head to chase those unwanted pictures away. This violent movement resulted in the water sloshing over the rim of the tub, splattering the cold tiles. He wiped a wet hand over his face and looked on in disgust when he saw that his body was betraying him and reacted to his fantasy. He sat up, ashamed of his arousal. In an attempt to chase those thoughts away for good he concentrated on the awkwardness he had felt just a few moments ago. But his mind travelled back to John, _John_ \- What about John? Undeniably, there was awkwardness now, yes, but he had to take into account all that John meant to him, and these things combined made an unhealthy mix, resulting in the fact that he _simply didn't know anymore_. And not knowing drove him mad. It made him insecure and weak when at the same time he was well aware that he couldn't dwell on this insecurity forever and that they would have to talk - eventually.

He shifted in the water, sliding down again as his skin had become chilly and he had started shivering again, but this feeling of unease clung to him like a bad smell. An ugly, unique feeling and it had the power to make his heart race and his hands ball into fists. It was obvious that bringing this little confession out into the open, squarely facing what Harry had told him, might result in losing everything. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut as if this almost primeval instinct of avoidance would change everything and make it go away. Of course – of course - it did not and he saw the worst scenario unfurling before him as clear as glass - He saw that he might end up losing John, might end up being alone again.

Suddenly the urge to be with John became overwhelming. He quickly got up, oblivious of the water spilling onto the floor and regardless the fact that barely ten minutes had passed and he wasn't anywhere near enough 'warmed up' as John had put it. He towelled dry and in lack of fresh clothes he grabbed his dark blue dressing gown from the low stool next to the sink where he had tossed it carelessly the last time he had worn it. He slipped it on, already shivering from the cooler air in the bathroom, and fastened the belt around his narrow waist tightly. From the kitchen the sound of John clinking and clanking around could be heard, and it made Sherlock's lips curl into a smile - what a comforting noise, what a strangely domestic feeling.

He grabbed the door handle and opened the bathroom door. Now was as good a time as any to talk to John about what Harry had told him this morning. Sherlock took a deep breath and went to join John in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It never happened before that nobody commented on my chapters ... it feels rather strange and makes me feel a tiny bit insecure, so if you find anything you like please be so kind and tell me! ;-D 
> 
> And thank you all for kudos and subscriptions! JJ


	4. Truths

Sherlock walked down the hall and widened his nostrils to greedily suck in the smell coming from the kitchen. Amazingly the odour of chicken broth permeating the air was not repellent, but appetizing, and his stomach growled to remind him that he had not eaten all day. He quietly stepped behind John who was stirring the soup in a pot, waiting for it to boil, all the while absent-mindedly humming a tuneless melody under his breath. John's forceful stirring as well as his tuneless humming conveyed anger, Sherlock noticed, suppressed anger and exasperation. Better tread carefully then, he thought. The confusion which had clouded his perception and had numbed him all day, had given way to a strong will to explore, to deduce, to get to the heart of the matter. He resolutely tightened the belt of his dressing gown once more, but when a shiver passed over his body, he regretted having left the hot water. He was beginning to feel cold again already and his bare feet grew uncomfortably chilly on the cold wooden floor.

'This – um – smells nice,' Sherlock said softly, trying to sound non-committal and what he considered friendly and open. John looked up at him and snorted, 'Does it now?' His glance settled on Sherlock and when his array registered, the bare feet and the thin blue dressing gown wrapped around his naked body, John exploded. 'Have you gone quite mad, Sherlock?' He spat out, 'Don't you care about your health at all? Traipsing around the cold kitchen with bare feet - I can't bloody believe it.' He chucked the wooden spoon forcefully into the pot and faced him. 'It's as if you have no regard for yourself and no regard whatsoever for others. You just don't care! Go! Now! Don't hang about … Get into your bed!'

His voice had grown louder with every word and he felt the need to pause. No use to shout, no use to let him feel his anger and – concern - so blatantly. He exhaled, slowly and purposefully, and dipped his chin to calm down a bit. When he spoke again his voice was much more controlled, 'How long have you been in the bath?' He checked his watch, 'Not even ten minutes! For God's sakes, that's not nearly long enough!' He had to pause again, trying to control the anger that was bubbling up in his chest anew. 'I do my best to get you warm. I make tea for you, heat bloody chicken broth, prepare a warm and comfy bed and you strut around almost –' he squinted at Sherlock. 'Are you wearing anything underneath the -' he waved his right hand in the direction of his hips. Drawing breath he glanced at Sherlock who looked amused, eyebrows arched and a lopsided smile playing around his lips. John frowned and hissed, 'What's so _bloody_ funny now?'

'Nothing, John. It's just that I haven't seen you in full doctor mode, or more appropriately put, _mother hen mode_ before.'

A flush crept up on John's neck and his frown deepened, he couldn't for the life of him understand the mood swing that seemed to have occurred in Sherlock. Barely ten minutes ago, he had been silent, broody and unapproachable and now he was making jokes about his well-meant ministrations. _What the bloody hell was the matter with him?_ The bad-tempered moodiness had been Sherlock alright, but this cheerful jocularity seemed rather out of character. Especially following hard on the brusque and frankly mystifying behaviour he had displayed earlier.

'Whatever – ' With this rather witless and lame retort John turned away from him and took the pot off the heat to ladle a generous amount of steaming broth into a bowl waiting on a tray on the counter. He glanced sideways at Sherlock who hadn't moved. 'Don't make me say it again, Sherlock. You need to get into bed.' Sherlock didn't move, but his eyes scanned the tray containing a mug of steaming tea, a bowl of hot broth and two slices of buttered bread. It looked very promising indeed and again Sherlock's stomach growled. John heard it as well and despite his annoyance he had to grin. 'Go! Now! –' He ordered, followed by an exasperated, 'I'll be with you in a mo.'

Sherlock suddenly felt tiredness settle over him like a shroud and the cold very unpleasantly seep back into his bones, so the prospect of being mothered a bit by John seemed very enticing indeed. He gave a curt nod and without any further resistance he went into his bedroom to lie down. Sherlock switched on the light in his bedroom and a mocking little smile curled the corners of his lips when he saw the mountain of blankets covering his bed. He removed all but his own and John's duvet, chucking them carelessly on the floor, before he shrugged out of his dressing gown and slipped underneath the covers. He stretched his tired limbs to get the circulation going and then curled up in a foetal position to make full use if his body heat to warm up quickly.

Moments later John entered the bedroom with the tray and sat it down on the night table next to Sherlock's bed. Instead of leaving Sherlock to it, though, he pottered about in his room a bit, picking up his blue dressing gown from the floor, hanging it on a hanger and then, where it very well should be, on a coat hook next to the wardrobe. With a disapproving shake of his head he picked up the discarded blankets, carefully folding them, one by one, and placed them at the foot of the bed lest they should be needed later. It was obvious that everything was pretence not to leave Sherlock, whom he did not trust to eat once left alone. Sherlock saw straight through this ploy, and as he had no intention of further annoying John, he sat up in his bed, stuffed a cushion behind his head and leaned against the wooden headrest. He was entirely oblivious to the fact that he was naked and his lean torso in plain sight. John was not, though, and he made sure not to rest his gaze on his chest, made sure not to register Sherlock's creamy skin or the fact that his nipples stood erect due to the sudden change of temperature - Mind you, they shouldn't, John thought, as the room was very warm, stifling in fact - Again he realised that he felt way too hot and uncomfortable in his woollen jumper. He lightly shook his head as if to rid himself of this image of Sherlock and fixed his gaze on the floor, bending down to pick up and then fold the last of the blankets.

When a moment later his gaze involuntarily did flicker to Sherlock, he caught him grabbing the bowl of soup and the spoon, and a smile lit up his face chasing away the worry lines around his eyes. Sherlock could not help but echo this smile before he greedily spooned the hot broth into his mouth. It was delicious and it filled his stomach pleasantly.

'John,' he said between two spoonfuls. 'Why don't you sit down next to me.' John, who was standing undecidedly next to the chest of drawers, his arms crossed in front of his chest, didn't react immediately and only raised his eyebrows enquiringly. 'Please,' Sherlock added, assuming this was the magic and missing word. John uncrossed his arms and walked the two steps over to Sherlock.

'You want me to sit down next to you?' he asked, not sure why he needed this reassurance.

'Yes. Would you? Please?'

'Right – Okay.' John cleared his throat before he gingerly sat down on the soft mattress of Sherlock's large bed. He felt more than a bit awkward, what with Sherlock naked in the bed, only inches away from him, when until this evening he had rarely set a foot into his room. He cleared his throat again and faced Sherlock with a smile which was a tad insecure.

'John – um – I want to thank you for all your help. That was very good and quite sensible what you did. What would I do without you?'

'Yes – all right. You're welcome, Sherlock.' John didn't say more, was not sure how to take Sherlock's words, and whether there wasn't a trace of mockery somewhere. So he chose to wait. It was Sherlock's turn to explain now, and high time it was.

'I think I owe you an explanation,' Sherlock continued and John nodded, a pinched look to his mouth. 'I'm sure you want to know what I meant when I said I was thinking about you – when I came back tonight. Well, it all started this morning when I returned from Cardiff and found your sister Harry here. She came down for breakfast while I was working on some samples from Cardiff. I was surprised to find her in our flat when I knew you had already gone out for work.' A hint of annoyance flickered over Sherlock's face, but he didn't voice his distaste and continued undeterred. 'We – um - talked a little and then she told me something.'

'Yes?'

Sherlock decided to be blunt, 'She told me that you love me.'

'She did _what_?'

'She said you had been very unhappy these past few weeks and that it had been because of me. She said you had confided in her and told her about your feelings for me. And I just want to assure you that it's fine, and we can still be friends. As long as you're not expecting …'

John tried very hard to school his face into an impassive expression while he digested Sherlock's unbelievable revelation. He failed though, and after a few moments his shoulders began to heave and his face creased into innumerable lines.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, 'Are you laughing, John?'

John couldn't hold back anymore and snorted, 'Did you … did you believe her?'

'Yes,' Sherlock simply said, his voice very low. He was undeniably taken aback by this unexpected outburst of mirth. To cover up his confusion he adjusted his position in the bed and half-turned to place the bowl of soup on the night table. The strong-smelling broth had suddenly lost all appeal and his stomach almost turned at the sight of the buttered slices of bread.

'Is that why you were behaving so strangely? You thought I was hitting on you?' John laughed again, but to Sherlock's ears it sounded forced and he was quick to fix his gaze on John. He watched him with narrowed eyes and a deep furrow above his nose. John seemed to do his best to avoid his gaze. 'Don't worry, Sherlock!' He chuckled, 'You're quite safe. I'm not remotely interested in you as a … you know. No, you're safe - quite, _quite_ safe.'

'So, you're not …?'

'No! – Heavens, no! That would be mad, wouldn't it?'

John got up, still not looking at him. He felt the urge to be somewhere else, felt the need to clear things up. But not with Sherlock, no, not with him - Not yet.

'I'll pop off to the living room for a second. If you need anything just give me a shout.'

Sherlock nodded and continued to watch John closely. His reactions were very interesting, very conclusive, very _telling_ indeed. His eyes attentively followed John out of the room and then he settled back into his bed. He pulled John's duvet up to his face, burying his nose deep in the soft fabric and inhaling a scent that surely must be John's. The dark green duvet smelled of tea and fabric softener and John's lemony aftershave. And it smelled good. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited.

 

oOo

 

'For fuck's sake, Harry, have you completely lost it? Are you out of your mind? How dare you telling him something like that?'

'I don't know what you are talking about.'

'Oh, don't give me that fucking innocent little girl crap. You know exactly what I am talking about! You told Sherlock that I was in love with him! How dare you!'

'Oh that – '

'Yes – Oh that! Has the bomb you dropped onto our _hitherto oh so peaceful little world in 221B_ already slipped your alcohol-riddled mind?'

Harry sharply sucked in breath - it was unbelievable how John's words hurt. 'No, I actually remember quite well, Johnny. How come you kn…'

'Don't _Johnny_ me, Harriet.' John rudely interrupted his sister. 'I'm furious. I don't know if I can forgive you or if I even want to … How do you think I felt when he told me?'

'You know because he _told_ you? I'd never have thought he w-'

'Of course he did! You know Sherlock, he could not keep something like that to himself even if his life depended on it. He doesn't know how to handle those normal, _human_ things.' He scoffed before he continued, 'Have you spared one second to think about what this revelation might do to Sherlock? '

'Right,' Harry sighed. 'Now we're getting somewhere. That's interesting, isn't it? It has taken you roundabout sixty seconds to come round to the feelings of that madman. As if he had any! Would you like to know why I told him?' This enquiry earned her no answer. 'No, I didn't think so … Well, I will tell you anyway. He was so cold to me, Sherlock was. Condescending, patronizing - Not even a tiny glimpse of interest or sympathy. No _How are you, Harry?_ Or _Oh, I'm sorry, Harry_. No, nothing. He just spat on me - metaphorically speaking - and then I saw red and lashed out and told him.'

'That's no excuse, Harry. You know Sherlock. You know very well what he's like.' John drew breath and swallowed around a lump in his throat. 'Do you know what he did? He went out into the cold without a coat and walked around London for hours. When he came home he was half frozen to death, completely bewildered, believing I was in love with him.'

'And you're not?'

'Of course not. I – um - no, _no_ , I'm not.'

'Come on, John. Don't give me that. When we talk it's always Sherlock here, Sherlock there. Even now you only think about him and his bloody delicate feelings. Wake up, John and face the music.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I am talking about the fact that all you ever care about is Sherlock.'

'He's my friend.'

'He's not your _friend_ , he's much, much more, John. Face it, he's your everything, he's your life.'

'No, he's not! What are you bloody on about, Harry! You just want to find flimsy excuses for what you did. But I can't excuse it. Not for my sake and not for Sherlock's sake.'

'Point proven.'

'Bloody _hell_ , Harry! Stop it! You've really gone too far today. Don't come running to me the next time when your world collapses on you. Sod it, Harry. I've got enough.'

'You've got to tell him, John.' Harry did not know why she had said that, but somehow the words had wanted out. There was a long silence and Harry was sure that John had hung up on her when a rather quiet voice answered. 'I told him that I didn't love him just a minute ago. And besides, even if I … he's not like that, he doesn't _do_ romance or love … I'm not even sure if he ever has had anyone… ' John's voice trailed off.

'John, you have to tell him.' Harry said softly, but only silence floated back to her, 'John? - John?'

Her brother was gone. Harry looked at her phone accusingly as if an answer to that mess should be found written there. She tossed it aside and leaned back on the sofa. Closing her eyes she cursed her bloody, _bloody_ impulsiveness from this morning.

 

oOo

 

John returned to Sherlock's bedroom, deeply in thought, and rather reluctantly, as scenarios of the wildest and most impossible colours and shades and shapes were coursing through his mind. But the good Doctor Watson knew he had to check on his patient, even if he wanted to be anywhere else than under the scrutiny of Sherlock's piercing bright eyes right now.

He quietly walked around Sherlock's bed and found him lying on his side, fast asleep and clutching John's duvet close to him, his face all but buried in it. John smiled at the sight of a seemingly exhausted and peaceful Sherlock. He checked his temperature by placing his cool hand on his forehead. It felt hot, very hot indeed and John cursed under his breath. He was running a high fever and it was obvious for John that he would not leave him here on his own.

Sighing he grabbed two of the blankets and lay down next to Sherlock on his large bed. He lay down chastely on top of the duvets that covered the naked form of his friend and tried to keep a reasonable distance. Yawning John wiped both hands over his tired face. Maybe this was how it should be, John thought, closing his eyes. Maybe lying here, next to Sherlock, was exactly the right place to think about this frankly mad evening. Exactly the right place and the right time to think about how they should proceed from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very Happy New Year to you all! Thank you so much for your support and encouragement during the last year which was frankly quite mad, fanfiction-wise ;-D  
> I hope all your wishes for the coming year will come true! JJ


	5. Interlude

John woke with a start. Something had hit him - _hard_ \- in the chest. For a moment he was shocked, his heart beating a wild tattoo, and his body automatically on red alert, an indelible remnant of his military training. With his senses heightened, he scanned the place he found himself in. The air in the room he had woken in was hot, stifling even. Not his own room, as it smelled different, the whole atmosphere an alien one. The bed he was lying on was very different, soft and overflowing with blankets and definitely, _definitely_ not his own.

And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, John remembered. He let out a breath he had not been aware of holding when relief flooded him. Yes, he remembered alright now – No imminent danger, no nightmarish waking up in strange surroundings. _No!_ He _was_ indeed in his own flat, but in Sherlock's room, on his bed. Snippets of last night, this immensely strange and bewildering night, floated back to him and filled his heart with a strange mixture of emotions.

He coughed and blinked a few times to chase away the last stubborn bits of sleepiness, the adrenalin slowly ebbing away. Another sensation was trying to take centre stage now as a dull ache was throbbing persistently in his shoulder, the muscles tense and knotted there. The sharp pain when he lifted his head a bit made him wince and bite his lips. It was almost pitch black in the room, the curtains drawn tight to keep out any light, and as he could not see what had hit him, he cautiously started patting his chest. First he only found his jumper which he apparently hadn't taken off, but when he moved his fingers along the coarse wool they hit something soft and hot. Emboldened he moved his hand further on and ghosted along the long fingers of Sherlock's hand which lay on his chest.

John scoffed good-naturedly, but made no move to dislodge his friend's hand, which proved a hot and rather pleasant weight on his chest. Sherlock had obviously moved in his fitful and fever-induced sleep and was now curled up against John, lying on his side, his head close to his. And while John was still chuckling in a bemused fashion, Sherlock moved and draped his whole arm languidly and quite naturally over John's chest. John was trapped, and as he was loath to disturb Sherlock's sleep, he wiggled as unobtrusively as possible to ease the pain in his shoulder. It bothered him every now and then, ever since … well, ever since he had been shot. Especially when he had been lying motionless for a while, and he had in fact not dared to move much since he had climbed onto the bed, next to Sherlock.

Mind you, it was all very innocent as there still was the chaste barrier of the duvets between them, John lying on top and Sherlock underneath the heavy eiderdown. With a grin John remembered that Sherlock was indeed naked underneath the covers, he was … John lightly shook his head, wincing at the pain this sudden movement caused, and if there had been any light, it would have been witness of the blush which was finding a way onto John's cheeks. He was quick to silently reprimand himself for having thought of this juicy detail first instead of checking his patient's temperature. Judging by his hand the fever was unwaveringly high.

John again tried to move without disturbing him and groped around in the darkness. Rationally thinking it would be advisable to check the temperature on his forehead, so he gently moved his fingers along the limp hand and the slender wrist. That it was a pleasant sensation, his calloused fingertips on the hot skin, he would not have admitted aloud. That he indeed enjoyed brushing his fingertips over the fine hairs on his forearm, passing the bony elbow and onto the shoulder blade. Lingering a moment on the smooth skin there, he spread his fingers and placed his palm flat on the shoulder, telling himself he was checking the temperature, but revelling in the smooth, velvety texture of Sherlock's skin.

It was bewildering where his thoughts travelled all of a sudden, thoughts he had forbidden himself all those past weeks, months. A floodgate seemed to have opened as if John's heart had needed an impulse like Harry's shenanigans to wrench open the door to the chamber where he had buried his feelings for this impossible madman. And right now, at this very moment, at this quiet hour between night and day he couldn't care less about the outcome or the consequences.

The fact that Sherlock was sleeping, not reacting, not moving, not accompanying his every move with his usual snarky comments, made everything so much easier at this stage, and encouraged him to ghost his fingers along the nape, soon meeting soft, silky curls. Finding the skin damp underneath the mass of hair was evidence for the fact that Sherlock's body was trying to sweat out the fever. John weaved his fingers through the curly strands, gently moving in circles, exerting sweet pressure onto his hot scalp, and thus slowly, slowly trailing a way to his forehead. Lightly pressing his hand against the sweaty skin he assessed that Sherlock's temperature was still high, but not overly dramatic so. He would certainly be much better in the morning. That was good – and very reassuring.

'It's alright, Sherlock – only a fever. I'm here.' He whispered to his sleeping friend - Not entirely certain why he felt the need to speak at all. 'I'm here.'

John traced his gentle and cool fingers in circles over Sherlock's hot skin, trying to smooth damp, stray curls from his forehead, the tender gesture proving a worthy companion of his soothing words.

'John,' a drowsy and very low voice drifted through the darkness - barely there and easily mistakable for a dream or a hallucination - 'John … Why don't you love me?'

The cool fingers paused one second, then two, before they resumed stroking and smoothing at an even more tender pace and Sherlock relaxed into sleep again, his face lit up by an exhausted, but happy smile. A smile immediately swallowed by the darkness in his room.

 

oOo

 

Sunrays tickled Sherlock's face and forced him to open his eyes. They were insistent, disturbing, unwanted – What he wanted was to get up, to get moving, to be up and about. But his body wouldn't let him. His limbs felt leaden, weighted down with weariness. Even opening his eyes had been a struggle and turning his head towards the blasted sunlight hurt. Instinctively he shut his eyes tightly to block off the pain that was dancing behind his eyes and in his head like snowflakes dancing a merry waltz on a cold winter morning. He swallowed thickly, his throat sore and burning like fire. 'John' he wanted to call, but all his vocal cords could produce was a miserable croaky sound. He cleared his throat and tried again, 'John?'

But the flat was quiet, John apparently not around, and this realisation made him feel strangely lost and abandoned. Sherlock tried to sit up, but his arms and legs were damnably weak and wouldn't follow his brain's orders. Exhausted from this meagre attempt to regain independence he slumped back onto his bed, frustration and exasperation beginning to fight the usual battle within his mind. He closed his eyes again. Sentenced to immobility by his fallible body he had to resort to something else, something to keep his brain occupied. And there was a lot that was filling his every thought. More - Every nerve, every fibre of his body forced him to go back to yesterday and last night. Go back to John and the quandary they found themselves in –

_John says he does not love me - and Harry says he does. John's words were clear, his denial quick and insistent. But his actions and his body speak a very different language indeed. You're so easy to read, John. You don't want to show me, but you can't hide it –_

The more he had denied being in love, the more strained he had become, visibly fighting the urge to leave the room immediately after Sherlock had confronted him. John had not been able to meet his gaze, had been uncomfortable being in the same room with him lest Sherlock should read what had been written so plainly all over his face. Yes, it had been there to see –

_There to act on as well? The question of course being: Do I want to act on it? -_

Sherlock slumped deeper into the covers, but feeling uncomfortable he turned onto his side and curled up in a foetal position. This damned fever made him so sleepy, when there so much to do, so much to think through, file away, cross check and assess … He did not have the strength to fight his weak body for long, though, and after a few minutes his breathing slowed down and his thoughts stopped racing. And just before he drifted off to sleep, he realised that he was no longer alone in the flat. A smile curling the corner of his lips acknowledged that John had come home –

_He must have been down to the shops. John - always so good – always looking after me -_

With this thought Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and reliving the sensation of cool, tender fingers ghosting over his brow he fell asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support! You really make my day ;-D JJ


	6. Relief

'How long?'

John put the steaming mug he was holding down on the night table and checked his watch. 'Eleven hours, thirty-three minutes.'

'What a waste,' Sherlock croaked, his usual velvety voice a hoarse mess.

'Eleven hours and thirty-three minutes from the moment I checked on you. Don't forget you had been fast asleep by then. So, very likely you slept more than twelve hours.' John gestured to the mug on the table, 'Brought you some hot milk with honey to soothe your throat.' Sherlock pulled a face, displeasure and impatience flickering over it. 'I know, I know, Sherlock. You won't like it, but let me tell you one thing. If you're not careful you might lose your voice for a while. Laryngitis is not to be taken lightly.'

'I don't care,' was all Sherlock muttered as a response, sounding very much like a petulant five-year-old. Being confined to bed because one's useless body had chosen to malfunction at the most inconvenient of times, was one of the worst things that could happen to someone as impatient as Sherlock. John watched him and couldn't suppress a grin. 'Drink that milk! Heaven forbid you'll lose your voice, Sherlock. You'll literally die of suppressed scornfulness if you won't be able to comment on each and every thing in your usual snarky way.'

'I don't do that!' Sherlock protested, trying to inject some vehemence into the ghost of his voice, but his protest ended up rather weak. Whispering he added, 'I don't _always_ do that.'

'Yes, you do! And you always try to have the last word!'

It was a bait, of course, and Sherlock refused to rise to it. Instead he chose to pull a face, underlining the prevailing childish impression. 'Don't feel like talking much anyway,' he mumbled. 'I feel like death warmed over. Do something, John! Can't you give me an injection to make this go away fast?'

'Don't be so childish, Sherlock! You know as well as I do that all it requires is time. So you will just have to accept that your body is going to be weak for a while, your throat sore, and that you will not be able to dash about in your usual fashion for at least a week.' Sherlock huffed indignantly and rolled his eyes in exasperation, his body too feeble for a more expressive reaction.

'While I'm here let me check your temperature, Sherlock.' Without warning John pressed his cool hand against his forehead. Unprepared for physical contact as he was Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and he tensed involuntarily, this very brief and almost fleeting touch powerful enough to send shivers down his spine. Surprised he glanced up to gauge John's reaction. John sensed that he was being watched and met his gaze, smiling down at him in a friendly fashion. Otherwise he seemed entirely unaffected by this physical contact, however brief it had been. Sherlock frowned, this wasn't what he had expected – _No, not at all_ \- According to the data he had gathered last night, John should at least have avoided his gaze. But he was cool as a cucumber, very professional and very brisk.

'Well, you're still running a fever, but it's not as high as it was last night. Good!' John flashed him a professional smile again and turned away. _Odd!_ Sherlock thought - _Very odd indeed!_ Here they were, in his bedroom, and at a simple, innocent touch his own body exhibited all the symptoms he would have expected from John. And then there was John, usually so flustered John, unfazed and undisturbed by it. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and without realising touched his upper lip, ghosting his index finger over his Cupid's bow in a rather sensual manner. John did not notice, though, as he was too busy picking up stray blankets that had found their way from the bed to the floor during the night. Sherlock's eyes followed his movements and he decided to keep a close eye on John, collect more data - _maybe corner him?_ After what had just occurred he felt a strong urge to confirm his theory from last night - If anything, it would keep his mind occupied. Right now, though, he wanted nothing more than to get up, go the bathroom, brush his teeth, ideally take a shower. He started peeling back the heavy green duvet.

'What do you think you're doing?' John demanded, turning back from the window which he had opened to welcome in a bit of the fresh winter air. His face was a study of amazement, his eyebrows almost travelling up to his hairline.

'Getting up. I think that's obvious.'

'You'll do nothing of the kind. You're far too weak!'

'I most certainly will! I have to go to the bathroom!'

John blinked, 'Oh! – Right! Of course.'

Sherlock scoffed at John and tried to sit up. The sudden flurry of movement made his head spin and he had to close his eyes to steady himself. But he would be damned if he gave up now. Under no circumstances would he give John that satisfaction. John watched him with narrowed eyes, assessing, checking, and coming to the conclusion that he could risk letting Sherlock potter about for a few minutes. Giving him a bit of privacy he turned around to the wardrobe to fetch some clothes, preferably a t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and, let's not forget, underwear. Only when he opened the heavy doors of Sherlock's antique walnut wardrobe did it occur to him that he had no idea where he kept his stuff.

'Um – Sherlock?' He asked.

'Chest of drawers. Second drawer underwear. Third drawer t-shirts. Fourth drawer pyjamas.'

'Right.' John closed the wardrobe doors and walked over to the chest of drawers. He did not know what he had expected, but when he pulled out the drawers one by one his jaw literally dropped and his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of neat rows of colour-coordinated garments. Underwear in various shades of black and grey, neatly folded piles of white, blue and black t-shirts, and various, equally neatly folded striped pyjama bottoms. He whistled through his teeth, 'Ever been to the army, Sherlock? This meticulous order is worthy of a general!'

'You know very well that I haven't,' was the rather humourless retort. John ignored him and swiftly made his choice among the display of clothes, choosing black briefs, a grey t-shirt and grey, blue and white striped pyjama bottoms. He turned around and handed everything to Sherlock who had managed to heave himself up and was now sitting on the edge of the bed, his bare feet placed flat on the rug and John's duvet modestly draped around his mid-section. John let his gaze travel unobtrusively over Sherlock's naked form and taking in his bare feet he asked, 'Socks?'

'Top drawer.'

This time it came as no surprise to find rows of colour-coordinated, neatly folded pairs of socks. All of the fine cotton or silk variety and of no use whatsoever for now. 'These are no good. I'll get you a pair of my woollen socks. We need to keep your feet warm and toasty. Do get dressed while I fetch them.' John turned around to Sherlock, 'And don't try to go to the bathroom alone! Do you hear me?'

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned, 'Yes, John. No need to get all _doctorish_ on me. I heard you alright!'

'Doctor- _ish_?' John suppressed a grin, and trying to keep a straight face he added sternly, 'Well, as long as you don't go alone, it's all fine!'

 

oOo

 

Half an hour later Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair in his customary fashion, his elbows on the armrests and his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. It had cost him a lot of persuasive power to get Dr John Hamish Watson's placet to stay out of his bed for a while. Clad in fresh clothes and his feet in John's woollen socks - which were a bit too small, but surprisingly comfortable - he was watching John. John, who aggravatingly had not let him go about his business in the bathroom alone, but had insisted on waiting right behind the door which had been ajar, and then within the bathroom, while he had been taking a shower - _I'm not going to take any chances, Sherlock. You are very weak and you could slip and bang your head, so just shut up and do what I say!_ \- Sherlock had not graced this ridiculous assessment of his ability to take a shower alone with a reply, but had grudgingly admitted defeat.

Now, John was cleaning the kitchen, arranging their washing, and most certainly preparing yet more milk with an astonishing amount of honey to virtually spoon-feed him. Sherlock lowered his head like a cat spying out a potential lunch, narrowed his eyes and observed –

_John seems very relaxed, very calm, almost serene – content! Yes, very content. No anger, no confusion, just concentrated, frankly aggravating contentment –_

Sherlock could make out none of the avoidance tactics he had so evidently employed yesterday. And in the bathroom John had had no problem locking eyes with him, had met his gaze openly and friendly, and whenever Sherlock had touched him, not so accidently brushing his hand over his, moving closer to him, invading his personal space, there had been none of the tell-tale signs which had so plainly plagued him yesterday. What had happened? Where had all the awkwardness gone? Where? It could not just have vanished into thin air, could it? And why was he himself feeling so awkward? Strangely excited, but also hollow and - empty?

Sherlock let his hands sink on the armrests. Something needed to be done, he needed to know! John had started rummaging around in the fridge, his back to him, probably cleaning out some of the debris usually to be found in there. He was completely unaware and humming under his breath. Perfect!

Sherlock slowly got up, careful not to make any noise, stubbornly ignoring the dizziness, and padded on his stockinged feet into the kitchen. John closed the door of the fridge with a bang and turned around. Doing so, he found himself almost nose to nose with Sherlock.

'Sherlock! Bloody _hell_! What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that!'

_He's startled, a bit angry, his pulse elevated because of the surprise element, but there's no …_

Sherlock closed the tiny remaining gap between them and with their chests touching he looked down on him, locking eyes. John visibly swallowed, but his pupils did not dilate, he held his gaze and appeared relatively cool, maddeningly calm and collected. He was perfectly at ease in this situation! It was enough to make Sherlock explode. 'Stop it, John!'

'Stop it?' John frowned, 'Stop what, Sherlock? I'm not doing anything!'

'Yes, you are!'

'No, I'm most definitely not!'

'That's exactly the point!' Sherlock turned away, ruffling his hands through his hair in a frustrated fashion. 'That's _exactly_ the point!' he repeated, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

'What did you expect?' John asked, and when Sherlock heard the tender tone of voice, he looked up. 'I expected you to be flustered when I come near you. I expected you to avoid my gaze. I expected your pulse to go up and your heart skip a beat – I – All that – Everything … you know.' He waved his hand vaguely trying to indicate the _everything_. 'Like you did last night when I told you I knew.'

'Oh –' John said, and it sounded a bit sheepish. He made as if to turn back to the fridge and not pay Sherlock's outburst any more heed. Out of the blue, though, he turned back and focused on Sherlock, his tone of voice completely changed. ' _Why_ do you want me to exhibit all those signs, Sherlock?' He paused and Sherlock could fairly see the anger build in John's eyes. He could not take it and averted his gaze. 'Do you want to collect _more data_? More data to make it all the easier to laugh at me? Before you push me away, reject me - again? Would you like to see me making a fool of myself once more for the immense pleasure of a certain Consulting Detective? For the perverse entertainment of Sherlock Holmes, the man without a heart?'

Sherlock's head shot up and he fixed his bright eyes on John. 'Is that how you see me, John? A man without a heart?'

'No – No, of course not. I didn't mean to …' John wiped his hands over his face, suddenly feeling tired and drained. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock.'

They were silent for a long moment, neither of them knowing where to go from here. It was Sherlock who eventually asked, 'When did I reject you, John?'

'You honestly don't know, do you?' John replied, a look of long-suffering exasperation on his handsome face.

'No,' Sherlock simply answered, leaning against the counter as this blasted weakness assaulted him anew, seeping into his bones along with a profound feeling of disappointment.

'You said – last night – _We can still be friends as long as you're not expecting more_.'

'I never said that!'

'Yes, you did!' John turned away as if he needed a second to control himself. ' _I_ was there – _you_ were there. How can you possibly deny it?' He opened his arms in a gesture indicating lack of understanding. 'And why is it such a big deal all of a sudden? Why do you care what I feel? You are not interested in people, and we both know that you don't do love or relationships. That's it then! End of story!' When Sherlock did not react he added almost as an afterthought, 'You might have forgotten, but I remember very clearly that you told me once you were married to your work!'

Sherlock lowered his eyes and sighed. This was so confusing! Why was John so angry? And why did it make him feel so insecure? He felt completely out of his depths now.

'John,' he lifted his hands to his temples, trying to get some kind of order into his thoughts. 'You denied being in love with me. Your body spoke a different language of course …' John opened his mouth to intercept, but with a slight shake of his hand Sherlock waved his possible retort away and continued. 'I never said we could not be more than friends, I …'

'Yes, you did!'

'No, I never finished that sentence. I remember very well what I said! John, I did not say that - you just _assumed_.' He let his hands sink to his sides and looked at John. His expression softened when he saw confusion dancing over John's face. 'It's a mistake to theorise without all the facts, John.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Alright,' Sherlock said, closing his eyes for a moment, concentrating. When he spoke again, his voice was not only croaky, but muffled with emotions. 'I will tell you, John. Why I want to see those signs on you. It's because I need confirmation. I want to see those signs to know that I was right.' John puckered his lips, and dipped his chin, he was quite clearly growing impatient and Sherlock realised that this was no good. He had to come clear and he had to do it now. 'John, I wanted those signs to tell me that you indeed feel something for me … I want to see your pupils dilate, I want to see you get flustered when I come near you, I want to feel the elevated pulse - I -' he paused, a slight feeling of panic fluttering inside his chest, but there was no backing down now. 'I want to see those signs mirroring mine. Because, John, I _feel_ that way and I _do_ exhibit all those signs!' He could not help it and added, 'But you only ever see and do not observe!'

'Right! … But I thought … You definitely gave me the feeling we could only be friends, but never more!'

Sherlock looked up at him from under his eyelashes and smiled a very appealing lopsided smile. 'Let me put it this way, John. You cannot be more surprised than I am. I am completely baffled by these emotions. I'm at a loss - All at sea - Out of my depths - Utterly, utterly helpless!'

John dropped his gaze and smiled. 'I'd never thought I'd hear the great Sherlock Holmes admitting that he doesn't know what to do!' He eventually said, unable to keep a certain smug satisfaction out of his voice.

'Well, treasure the memory, my John. It will never happen again!'

John's heart skipped a beat when he heard Sherlock call him _my John_. His gaze flickered up to Sherlock before he dropped it again. Swallowing around a lump in his throat, he felt his palms go clammy and a blush creeping up his cheeks. Sherlock observed everything, the blush, the bobbing Adam's apple, the fluttering eyelids, the fidgeting fingers.

He registered everything and he greedily drank it in. Slowly he lifted his hand and answered John's emotions by gently touching his blushing face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Sherlock being Sherlock he would certainly still talk a lot even with laryngitis threatening to take his voice away …;-D
> 
> And please bear with me … there's still a little bit to come!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your continuing support! You are really lovely :-D JJ


	7. Conclusion

John slowly closed his eyes, unable to grasp the reality of the moment, the changed dynamic between the two of them, unable to believe that this was actually happening. He leaned into the touch, hoping to find the soft pressure of warm fingers, and - _Oh God, yes!_ \- the gentle answering caress of those fingers was undoubtedly real. His chest expanded as he greedily gulped down air. When he exhaled, a soft, stuttering sigh escaped his mouth earning him a low, hoarse chuckle. He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Sherlock – And it was as if he saw him for real for the very first time.

He had never seen him like this before, never this close, this intimate, this vulnerable and never this beautiful. Sherlock's angular and usually so pale face was very animated, fairly glowing from within, his fascinating eyes bright and shining. But not like yesterday when the fever had given them a false and sickly glow, no they were gleaming with the excitement of the moment they found themselves in. The pupils were almost fully dilated, practically blotting out the fascinating grey-blue of the iris, and John began to understand why Sherlock had been so keen on finding those symptoms on him. The body's instinctive reactions to excitement, arousal and love were very intriguing indeed. And to see them so clearly on Sherlock, on a man hitherto claiming not to be interested in love, was making John's skin tingle and his chest resonate from within as if a bunch of tiny birds were flapping their wings excitedly.

Yes, Sherlock's face was beautiful indeed, so serene and peaceful and marked by a seriousness unlike anything John had ever seen on him. John's heart skipped a beat as he drew another stuttering breath. _It's real,_ he thought, _this is really happening, I can see it … I can feel it_. Sherlock watched him intently and enforced the pressure of his hand against John's cheek, relishing their connection and a touch that was wanted and deliberate, not stolen or an accidental brushing of warm on soft skin. It felt so good and Sherlock had to bite back a myriad of emotions which were threatening to spill over. Old habits die hard and so he tried to control himself in a moment when all he wanted was to lose control. When his heart registered what his mind was trying to achieve he lightly shook his head to rid himself of this worn-out and unwanted behavioural pattern.

He deliberately stilled his fingers for a moment on the soft skin of John's flushed face before he ended the reign of his mind and let his heart take over, focusing his entire being on John. And as if they had a will of their own his fingers trailed along John's face and down his neck before they came to rest on his nape. John locked eyes with him, intensifying their connection. Sherlock was able to read every thought in his eyes, every single thought that was running riot in John's mind. He saw insecurity battling with confidence, and he nodded, a curt, but reassuring nod. Curling his long fingers around John's neck he exerted a bit more pressure and pulled John towards him until his face rested against his chest.

It was the signal they had been waiting for and John let go of all restraint and wrapped his arms fiercely around Sherlock's waist, holding on tight, pressing their bodies against each other. Everything around them seemed to fade away in that moment except for Sherlock's fast, but steady heartbeat and a low humming sound that originated deep within his chest. They held on to each other, content in the closeness and intimacy of the moment, an innocent precursor of pleasures to come.

'John.' It was just a low whispered sound tickling his ear. 'John, look at me.' John, surprised at the urgency in Sherlock's voice, glanced up. He met Sherlock's eyes which were quickly darting over him, over his body and his face, like a scanner scanning every little detail. John willingly obliged and tilted his head upwards and into the light for Sherlock to see.

'What on earth has happened, Sherlock?' he eventually asked. Despite anything he might be feeling, despite anything he might be seeing, his mind still needed confirmation. He absolutely needed to know what was responsible for this change of heart and it was paramount that Sherlock should explain. John wanted him to _say_ it.

'Hmm,' Sherlock hummed as an answer, biting his lips, clearly buying time. 'I can't exactly pinpoint what _happened_ , John. Maybe you can tell me as I assume that you are much more experienced in the matters of the heart than I am. Granted, I can tell you everything there is to know about the chemistry of love. I can dissect the mechanics of sentiment. I can lecture you on what a vicious motivator love can be in a crime, but here? Right now? Us?' He paused, tenderly running his thumb along John's jawline. He fell silent, thinking. 'I guess, everything just sort of fell into place,' he eventually said, 'Every puzzle piece mysteriously found its assigned spot – Finally making a picture, a whole, making us complete.' He knitted his brows causing the characteristic deep furrow between his brows to appear as if he had to rethink what he had just said. John nodded and smiled, appreciating the effort Sherlock had taken to explain and gently touched the soft skin between his brows, smoothing the furrow away. Sherlock nodded, a simple gesture of confirmation and one mirroring John. He smiled back at him, 'That's it, I think. Yes! We are making a whole – It all makes sense now.'

'It does, doesn't it?' John confirmed. He let his head sink against Sherlock's chest again, but he was restless, something was still nagging in the back of his mind. 'It's just a bit, you know … it's all a bit sudden,' he mumbled against his chest. 'And I don't know – these two days – You confronting me and being completely and bloody mysterious and bewildering. It was like a rollercoaster of emotions, going up and down …'

Sherlock cupped his chin and tilted his face upwards. 'I wouldn't be quite so melodramatic, but, yes, you're probably right, John.' For a long moment he fixed his unwavering stare on John, the one he knew made him nervous, and on impulse he leaned forward and down a bit and buried his nose in John's hair. Enough talking, enough soul-searching for his liking. Something entirely different was needed now. God, he was surprised how _much_ he needed something entirely different now – How much he desired to be near John, to claim him, to finally make him his own and to be his.

Closing his eyes to heighten his other senses he widened his nostrils and inhaled the sweet lemony scent clinging to John's hair. Gently nuzzling the straight, soft hair he moved down to his neck and slowly opened his mouth to place an open-mouthed breezy kiss at the nape. He softly chuckled when John's skin immediately reacted to this light touch with goose bumps. 'Hmm,' he was almost purring contently like a cat now and continued to apply those sensuous kisses to John's neck, nibbling, licking and trailing a way towards his jaw and slowly to his mouth. John squirmed and moved even closer to him. Sherlock felt their arousals touching, and this only served to spurn him on, fuelling the need to have John, to be with him, to unite.

'Sherl ..' John gasped, 'Sherlock, I don't know … maybe, we should wait … your fever …'

'Damn my fever …' Sherlock whispered between kisses to John's cheeks and jaw.

'Let's at least … sit down … you're still … weak.'

'Later …' Sherlock stated and claimed John's lips and John opened his mouth to welcome Sherlock. Their first kiss was all teeth and lips and trying to get to know and exploring and finding a rhythm. It was all passion and desire, so unique and special only to be found in the first kisses of two people who have just realised that they mean the world to each other.

And in the matter of a split-second pictures wooshed past John's mind's eye like a film reel going backwards, portraits of all the people that had mattered to him, people he had loved, fancied, kissed, spent a night with, men and women and picture after picture faded and crumbled to dust, leaving his mind and heart blank except for one thing: Sherlock. Sherlock whom he was kissing with an unknown intensity, which was fuelled by the newness of the situation, by the passion and the desire he felt for him. It was such a cliché, wasn't it? - _Nothing compares to you_ – but nothing less than this overused phrase would fit this man and this moment.

 

oOo

 

Kissing Sherlock was spectacular. Sex with Sherlock had been awkward at first, but passionate and very promising. _After-sex cuddles_ (God, how he hated that word in all its syrupy glory) proved to be equally spectacular. Very much to John's amazement who had never been one to enjoy the lazy afterglow of lovemaking. To him it used to be a moment of deafening austerity and always a moment of awkward questions of the bloody _Do you really love me?_ variety.

But now? Here in Sherlock's room, lying together on his bed? With entangled limbs and pleasantly weighted down with a lazy drowsiness? With John nonetheless somehow electrified and unable to find sleep and Sherlock dozing, his head on John's naked chest, safe and snug in each other's arms? - John realised that it was just right, a simple, a quiet and content moment. And John knew he wouldn't mind any questions, no matter of what variety and he would be answering each and every one of them, might it touch on their feelings for each other or their future or their past.

He sighed and moved a bit to get rid of the restlessness that seemed to have taken hold of him, a kind of electrifying humming that was resonating within his body. Sherlock grunted as his head was jiggled by John's wiggling. 'Don't move, John. Not now.'

John grinned because Sherlock had repeated the exact words from half an hour ago when they had panted in each other's arms, spent and exhausted and John had felt the need to move, driven by the same restlessness that had made him wiggle now. He planted a kiss on top of Sherlock's head, right among the curls that John's fingers had dishevelled into a delicious and riotous disorder. They lay close together, in their dark bedroom, utterly content. John was as happy as he ever could be and Sherlock as happy as he had never been before.

'There's one thing that's still bothering me.' Sherlock mumbled against John's chest, his warm breath ghosting over his skin pleasantly.

'Oh? Right – what's that?' John kissed Sherlock's forehead and smoothed a stray curl away.

'What exactly _did_ you tell Harry? I find it hard to believe that you used her as an agony aunt as she claimed you did.'

'That's what she said?' John chuckled and made a mental note to have another talk with Harry – soon. 'To be honest, I never used her as an agony aunt, wouldn't dream of doing so. Actually, I never ever said one word to her, never confided anything concerning you … and, well, you know.'

'Shot in the dark, then.'

'It seems so.'

'Good one, though.'

'Definitely.'

'When you call your sister the next time do give her my love and –' Sherlock cleared his throat as if the words were too stubborn to get out and needed to be pushed a bit. 'Please say thank you.'

John frowned, he wasn't sure if he heard right. He cupped Sherlock's chin and tilted his face up to search for any sign of sarcasm or mockery on his love's features. 'Are you serious?'

Sherlock squinted up at him and lifted his hand to pull John towards him. He gently kissed his warm lips and whispered, 'Believe me, my John. I have never been more serious in my entire life.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it - a bit of fluff to round it off!
> 
> I want to say thank you to everybody who commented, left kudos or subscribed to the story. Your feedback really makes my day!  
> See you soon, my dears ... and if you have a prompt for me just let me know ;-D
> 
> JJ


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